


In The Cinders We Lay

by dawnstonedagger



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Assault, Attempted Murder, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fade to Black, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Past Female Hawke/Fenris - Freeform, Past Solas/Female Lavellan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstonedagger/pseuds/dawnstonedagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris is driven mad with grief after receiving the news that Hawke died in the Fade. The only person he truly blames for this is the Inquisitor, and so he seeks her out to end her and end his pain. But Lavellan is carrying plenty of her own heartache, while pushing forward in the fight against Corypheus, and she isn't about to let Fenris make Hawke's sacrifice worth nothing. Instead of finding vengeance, Fenris finds himself joining the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fortitude

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme. Prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=52748928#t52748928
> 
> I've decided to continue this fic, but expect updates to be infrequent.

Upon reaching the apex of Skyhold's tallest tower, Fenris could not help but observe that the security at the heart of the Inquisitor's bastion was terrible. The stairwell to her room lacked even a single guard. 

He’d managed to skirt the few he'd come across, drowsy on the battlements and half-heartedly patrolling the courtyard. He suspected he could have strolled in by the front gates and no one would have blinked an eye. They thought they were safe, here in this remote mountain citadel. Why should they not?

They would know the truth soon enough. Cold rage had driven him forward for days, and now he took the stairs to her room three at a time, up, up, not much further. Soon it would be done, he did not think about the after.

He took it as a warning, that the heavy door wasn't even locked or barred, its wards light enough to be easily disrupted by a pulse from his tattoos. The Inquisitor was either very lazy, or very confident of her power; he tended to assume the latter. When the door latch clunked loudly he felt sure it was all over, but he rushed forward despite, certain she'd be standing waiting for him.

But the lavish room at the top of the stairs lay silent and still, dark and moon-washed by floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows, the lattice through which he could see mountains edged by stars. He could smell woodsmoke and beeswax, and the remains of years of dust. 

She lay alone, not far from the stairs, a small figure ensconced in a massive bed that looked like it could have held six people, ten if they were elves; a twining staff rested near at hand against one of the thick bed posts.

Power tended to chase power; it didn't surprise him in the least that a mage had ascended so effortlessly to a position of domination and judgment. 

Not for much longer if he had anything to do with it. He would rip out her heart as sure as he had done Danarius'. As surely as she had ripped out his heart, whether she knew it or not.

He padded closer, feeling stone and then carpet under his toes, saying his last prayer, for this act would likely gain him enemies among even those he considered friends. His life had little to recommend it of late—so what if the rest of them suffered without this creature guiding them.

The world had already ended for him.

Fenris did not know why he stopped then, breathing heavily, his face a rictus of sorrow and anger.

Perhaps a buried part of him believed the rumors, wanted there to be a sign from the Maker, hoped she really had been chosen by Andraste, and sent to heal the world. All he knew was that when he wound his arm back to strike, he looked at her face, soft and peaceful in the moonlight and his will faltered. He could have cried.

This was who Hawke had died for, this woman, an elf like him, honestly beautiful, though he hated himself for noticing it—not Dalish since she didn't have the tattoos—and she was awake watching him, without a trace of fear.

The Inquisitor's eyes glimmered in the sickly blue light from his gauntleted fist, alert, waiting, but she didn't move, she didn't scream. She frowned instead, blinking up at him, almost as if disappointed.

“I'll take it you found the ruined passage and the other tower door?” she said, her voice husky with sleep, and tinged with irritation. “Cullen says it's a ridiculous security risk, but I like having a second exit. What, still hesitating? You're a terrible assassin. I hope they only paid half up front.”

“Give me one reason I should not kill you,” he growled, though he should have rent her flesh and been done with it between his next two breaths.

“I have to defeat Corypheus. Right now, nothing, and no one is more important than that,” she said with a steely calm, confident of her mission. 

One that he and Hawke had, unknowing it at the time, set into motion—and naturally, Hawke couldn't leave well enough alone. The Inquisitor eased up from her pillow and tilted her head, eyes widening at him with some realization.

“I see. You're him—Hawke's beloved. Your friends told me a bit about you, and of course I've read Varric's book. Not many elves are known to glow in the dark,” she said softly, and uncurled her left hand on her lap, washing everything around them with an eerie, flickering green light. The mark which made her to the minds of some, holy. 

Andraste's Herald—a harbinger, but of what? More death and destruction?

“I am, I was, until you let her die. Until you killed her,” he cried, embarrassed at how raw his voice sounded. Surely his loss could only be repaid one way.

“If I were stronger that would not have been the case,” she said, sincere, even regretful, but too calm, too easily accepting of Hawke's death. “One of us had to stay, and she volunteered—it all happened very, very fast. She felt our lives were worthy of her sacrifice, and we have to carry that, make it not in vain. Ar'an suledin nadas, Fenris.” She seemed to be saying this as much to herself as to him.

“I will not. I can not bear it. She was supposed to come back. Back to me!” he shouted, not caring if every soul in the tower heard him.  
Fenris snapped like a loosed spring, and pounced, tearing into empty sheets—too late, she'd already thrown herself off the bed and cast a barrier.

Easily overcome he thought, since she didn't have her staff, when a sword of pure magic, glowing golden and transparent, appeared in her hand as she crouched. The Inquisitor slid into a defensive stance, confident and controlled as any skilled mage needed to be.

“Very well. Come at me, lethallin,” she said, silhouetted in the arch of a window, sword glowing and crackling in front of her. Her eyes were full of familiar intensity, a fighting spirit he knew well from another face, one that stared down dragons and demons with equal, unabashed determination. “Or can we talk instead, and pretend you didn't come here expecting to die.”

She wasn't wrong.

He rushed her mindlessly, shifted himself into a specter, his skin burning, screaming like always, and drew his sword to try and cut her down, before she could lay into him with more words or her blade. For a moment he even thought he had struck true, but instead she shifted from vision.

Like him, she could become momentarily intangible, slip behind the Veil.

Catching him off guard, she reappeared in his space, almost between his arms it seemed for a second. The force of it threw him back, hard, over the top of a desk, dragging books and papers with him, into a sturdy bookcase and then the floor. His sword flew from his grasp, to clatter across the room, skewering the front of her couch. 

One heartbeat later, a set of scales toppled down next to him, narrowly missing his head.

“Have you finished? Because you are not the only one grieving, I assure you,” she said, approaching him, dispelling her sword. 

She did some quick, quiet magic, lighting half the candles, which made their surroundings look more like a chantry sanctuary than a bedroom.

As Fenris' eyes adjusted, the Inquisitor came into the corner where he sprawled, taking dainty, determined steps over his legs to get to her desk, the long skirt of her nightgown brushing his feet. This close to her, he caught from her the scent of astringent elfroot and sweet embrium. 

Not the perfume of a pampered noble, rather, more like that that of a person who had been spending too much time at the healers. Like Hawke, the Inquisitor did not seem to be the sort to shy from danger or injury.

“It's a shame we didn't meet before—your friends spoke so affectionately of your temperament. Perhaps we can start over, with less violence,” she said, calm and with a lilt of humor to her tone. He could imagine how Hawke and Varric might describe him in such terms, and none of it flattered.

When he kept his silence, she snorted and shook her head at him. 

“I understand that you don't like mages, and with good reason. I can't even say that I won't hurt you, clearly I have. But I am very tired and am going to have a drink, and you look like you could use one. Care to join me?” she asked, which was about the last thing he could have expected her to offer.

Opening a deep drawer in her desk, she grabbed a squat, round bottle which looked like Antivan brandy, and then withdrew another larger one, clearly of Tevene vintage. Two well-crafted bronze goblets with a halla motif, followed.

“My friend Dorian says they're the best two bottles he could find in Ferelden, much to his dismay. He'll swallow anything short of terebinthine that's put in front of him, though, so take that with a grain of salt,” she said, peeling the red wax seal off the cork to the wine, with her thumbnail.

“What does the label say?” he asked, finally looking up at her, succumbing to her obstinate cordiality. Perhaps he could allow himself to trust Hawke for a moment, to have known what she was doing when she saved this person. 

He resented them both for it, however.

“It's from Tevinter, I'm not sure if it's a name or a place—Faculta Ephelonus Marothius 2024, and under that Servo Singularis, I think? Apologies, my Tevene is atrocious,” she said. 

She turned and reached down offering her empty hand to him, the one without the mark, bracing herself for a strike. Almost as if he were an injured dog, wild with pain, which she was attempting to coax out of a bramble.

“A Marothius red taken from some magister's special reserve, it appears. You have generous friends,” he said, recovered enough from his daze to take her hand. Once released of her firm grip and on his feet, he stepped back, putting some much needed space between them.

“I do,” she said, studying his face, her expression unreadable. 

He knew he looked and felt ragged and travel-worn and smelled like the road, and while she didn't wrinkle her nose at him, she reasonably could have.

“Are you so certain I won't try to kill you again?” he asked, as she appeared to be ignoring the bronto in the room.

She'd mentioned Hawke and Varric's influence; her attempt at being hospitable towards him would make the most sense if she counted the friends of her friends as her own. Not a trait he could claim for himself, though he'd tolerated a number of Hawke's friends for her sake.

“I notice you say 'try'. If you can't even convince yourself, Fenris, really,” she said, a little too familiarly, confirming his suspicion.

“I don't have to convince myself, you have proven yourself a powerful adversary. It would also seem you know my name, Inquisitor, but I have never learned yours,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Forgive me. I am Ladarelan Lavellan, the First and last of Clan Lavellan, accidental Herald of Andraste and fearless leader of the Inquisition. You may call me whatever you like, though Lana is probably the simplest. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Would that it were over better circumstances.” 

Bottle in hand, she gave him a half-curtsy, sweeping the hem of her rather thin, almost sheer nightgown to the side, showing trim ankles and the callused feet of an elf who like most, eschewed shoes.

So she was Dalish, but without the vallaslin? Strange. And did she mean she had been the clan's First, but was also the only one left remaining of her clan? A sad fate, if true, made sadder by the knowledge that hers was not the only clan he knew of to have been exterminated recently.

“How is it you are First of a clan, but your face is bare?” he asked, his curiosity sparked. Merrill had claimed that receiving the vallaslin was a rather important part of the Dalish identity. 

The Inquisitor’s expression shifted from sardonic to sad as he spoke, like he'd touched on a sore spot.

“I had my vallaslin removed. I—he... I'm not sure now that I should have, but what's done is done. Going home is impossible, so it doesn't matter,” she said, with a not insignificant amount of bitterness. She looked away as if ashamed, and then pulled the cork from the bottle with a quick, almost angry jerk of her arm.

“Removed? That's possible?”

His own tattoos had caused him much suffering, being more like brands than tattoos, burning with lyrium. At the same time they gave him remarkable power. If he didn't have them, he could still fight, but wouldn't be near as effective. He suspected that he would miss that power immensely if it disappeared. A strange comfort settled in him though, at the idea that he might be rid of them if he ever saw reason to.

Still, the vallaslin were very important religious symbols to the Dalish, tied up in rituals of maturity both physical and spiritual, if he remembered Merrill's ramblings correctly. Removing them meant she had as good as rejected all that they represented. He wondered what could have transpired for her to have to have made such a choice.

“Yes, but I'd rather not speak of it,” she replied, eying the lyrium markings on his arm and then turning her attention back to the wine. “Do you think this needs to breathe? Dorian said something about not guzzling it like water,” she asked, pouring. 

She offered him the first cup, a dry red which smelled delicious, but he waited patiently until she had her own, to drink of it.

“I often finish the bottle before I remember such niceties, so... no?” 

As she chuckled, Fenris raised his cup in salute, and took a healthy swallow. If she meant to poison him—and that seemed unlikely, for she could have just as easily killed him with magic—it might just be a mercy; the wine did not taste of poison, quite the opposite. A different mercy then, and he felt himself surrendering far too easily.

“Sahlin ar sarennas,” she said, raising her cup to him, smiling before she drank deeply. He couldn't be sure what she had to be thankful about, unless she meant not having to drink alone.

“I suppose when I finish this, I should show myself to your dungeon?” he said, as he turned to go pry his sword out from the cushion it had impaled and prop it on the balustrade. He could feel her eyes on his back, but she didn't move to stop him.

“It doesn't have to be like that. You could join us. I am always looking for skilled people to contain Corypheus' minions. Varric's stories have given me a favorable impression of your abilities,” she said. 

Fenris took a seat on the damaged couch, half draining his cup. He wondered if it would be too much to ask for another when he finished, as her words registered.

He almost laughed.

“I may consider it. You should know, however, that Varric embellishes the truth. I doubt you will recognize yourself in your own tale when he's finished. You'll notice my sword is not actually as tall as I am.”

Lana's eyes widened in alarm. “My own tale? I know Cassandra's writing something, and of course there's the bard, but you don't think he's already—he said he meant to write about... Oh, that liar! Why am I not surprised?”

Fenris' mouth turned up at the corners. Had she not considered that Varric might be recording her every ridiculous foible to liven up his account of her life? That her very existence as Herald of Andraste, and her role as the Inquisitor, would be recorded for the ages, by many people?

“He is. Hawke forced me to read some of the earliest accounts he sent us.” Not long before she left, giving Fenris no clue of where she planned to go. “From them I understand that the Hinterlands are delightful. Full of flaming bears and demons pouring from strange, green rents in the sky. He describes you like he describes Hawke—someone he will follow into darkness, because you always find the way out,” he said, watching amusement flicker over her features, as she came over to refill his goblet. 

She left the bottle on the floor between them, and perched on the opposite arm of the couch, starting in on her second cup as well.

“Put that way, it sounds much less awful and monotonous than I recall. Significantly fewer blisters and rock slides, and much less bickering. Tell me, does Varric know you're here?” she asked with a frosty grin, as if she intended to strangle Varric if he'd kept this from her, also.

“No, no. Coming was... a spur of the moment decision,” he said, looking down into his glass and then back up at her, wishing he could scream at her and say that she didn't know how he felt. 

She did though, she had known loss and suffering, the bone deep pains of love; it sapped away his vitriol and left him with nothing but bottomless sorrow.

Leaning over, Lana touched his shoulder. A delicate touch, but he might as well have not been wearing armor; her pained expression reflected his own acutely. 

“I'm so, so sorry. If I could bring her back, I would. I know Hawke wanted to protect you and everyone she cared for. The world is less bright without her.”

“Truer words never spoken,” he said. There had been little enough light in his life, before he'd known her.

Lana sighed, and then sat up straight like she'd been startled. 

“Hmm, stay here. Someone's coming up,” she said, and strode over to the top of the stairs, waiting. Moments later, there was a knock on the door.

"Is that you Jerem? You may enter," she said.

The door creaked open, and Fenris could hear the shuffle of soft leather boots on stone. No armor, so a body servant or a mage. The person seemed to stop short when they saw Lana coolly regarding them from above, drinking wine.

“Your worship, are you well? Do you need anything?” came a male voice, Fereldan by his accent. “Anlow and Karla saw some flashing lights up here.”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about, Jerem. I've had trouble sleeping since I've had the news, just blowing off a little steam in the meantime,” she said.

“My condolences, your worship. Maker, losing your whole family like that. I know the commander didn't want us to bother you, but if you need anything, please ask.” The man sounded like the news Lana spoke of had been very recent, and he desperately wanted to help somehow. A testament to how well she'd won over the hearts of her followers, Fenris supposed.

“No, but thank you. I appreciate your concern, I just need some time to myself. Goodnight,” she said, dismissing him.

“As you wish, your worship.”

She waited for the servant to trudge out and close the door behind him, standing still for a moment staring down at the door. A tingle passed over Fenris' skin, which meant she was doing magic, probably resetting her wards. 

Lana didn't look at Fenris when she joined him again, but her mouth made a tight, angry line as she bent forward to refill her cup.

“I thought they'd be safe, because they were so far away from this, but I was wrong,” she said, her despair palpable, as it brushed up against his own. “And I could do nothing. Nothing. I am supposed to lead these people, the Inquisition, but even my smallest mistakes have dire consequences. That man who just left, he lost half his family at Haven. I still don't know what I could have done to protect them, much less my own.”

Fenris recalled when Hawke lost her mother, years ago, and how useless words had been then, how helpless they’d both felt. He'd always known that if he didn’t precede her in death, the feeling would come back, he'd be alone with it; that Hawke would die fighting, because outrunning death was what Hawke did, and no one could run forever.

“The idea that you can keep anyone safe outside yourself, is an illusion,” he murmured. And even that was a stretch.

“True, but I permitted myself to cherish that illusion. It's difficult to swallow that I'm completely alone now. I have no one, not even...”

“Alone, but for the murderous, half-drunk elf in your chambers,” he replied, his tone acerbic, though he knew what she meant. 

Her closest ties to this world were sundered, and her heart lay adrift. Not the most pleasant feeling to have in common with someone.

“Still murderous?” she said, smiling, shaking her head at him.

“Yes, but I'm not directing it at you—for the time being.”

“I suppose I'll have to ply you with wine and sad stories every night, then, for my own protection,” she replied, chuckling. 

Lana looked at him through her pale lashes, and her smile told him she'd be more than willing to do such a thing, even without the incentive of a knife at her throat. 

To his consternation he did not find the idea unappealing. If they'd met in another life, if she wasn't a mage, perhaps...

“You assume I plan to stay.”

“Do you have a better place to go?” she asked.

“Perhaps you have me there.” 

Fenris doubted he'd ever return to Kirkwall. He'd left the Hightown mansion to rot, and he would never feel comfortable in Hawke's home, without her presence filling its halls, her voice, her sweet smiles, her touch.

“If you like, I can have a room made up for you.” She said it as if he were an unexpected, but welcome guest. Considering that there were tents pitched in the courtyard, and a large encampment in the valley below, she had more heads than she had proper beds.

“Why? I rather like this one. You've room for an entire family here,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

Even this little wine, on an empty stomach made him glib, and to tell the truth, he didn't much want to move. He felt bone-weary, leaning heavily on the arm of the couch as he regarded her. 

All of his exhaustion from traveling, from being heartsick, it seemed to be catching up with him. Her oversized bed stood only a few feet away, and looked quite comfortable. 

They might both lay upon it and never even brush up against one another.

“True, I suppose I could put a pallet up in the loft for you. You're not sleeping in the bed though, unless you provide me with new sheets,” she said, most likely in jest, seeing him staring longingly at the bed. 

The warm light behind her green eyes and the playful curve of her lips, however, told him that she wouldn't throw him out if he ended up there. A flush of heat washed over his skin, that wasn't from the drink.

“An interesting offer. I am certain there are people who would kill to know that that is all it would take to bed you,” he said—wishing immediately after the words were spoken, that the wine hadn't loosened his tongue quite so well. 

Fenris could imagine Isabela laughing at him from a hundred leagues away, egging him on, and making lewd jokes about what else he ought to stab the Inquisitor with, having failed humiliatingly at his original plan.

“Much less than that, if you ask the gossips around here.”

“How much less?” he asked. Not just to make Isabela proud, but because there were only two things two tired, lonely, grieving people could get up to, in the proximity of a bed and sufficient amounts of alcohol. Sleep would be better, but he did crave intimacy, too.

“A bottle of wine and a handsome face, it would seem,” Lana said, and the look she gave him made his reservations dry up and blow away.

“An audacious woman who invites scandal at every turn. No wonder that they adore you.”

“I do like to entertain,” she said, holding his gaze with a mischievous smile.

“Truly? Do you have a deck of cards?” he asked with a sly grin of his own.

“Perhaps. What game?”

“Wicked Grace.”

“The stakes?”

“You may use your imagination. Not that that gown leaves much to it,” Fenris said, tugging on its hem, which had her pulling up her bodice before it went any lower. She had a generous bosom as elven women went, and a nice posterior, too. Nice enough, that he found it difficult to believe she did not have a lover.

“I may? Hmm. My imagination is highly intrigued and also wants to see you naked. Very well, they're under the bed, in my travel pack. Let me fetch them.”

“And I'll fetch the brandy.” Her excellent wine, now sadly gone, had infused him with a warm, pleasant, muzzy feeling, which he did not want to lose. 

He didn't bother retrieving the cups, but he did take a swig from the bottle. Just enough of a burn on the throat to remind him he was alive, but otherwise smooth; it wouldn't take long to get completely wrecked upon the stuff.

She waited for him on the bed, cross-legged on top of her torn coverlet, shuffling the cards. 

Fenris unbuckled his gauntlets and removed the more complicated bits of his armor, before joining her there. He had on quite a few more layers than she did, and though he was terrible at cards, he thought he'd offer a handicap, as well as avoid damaging the sheets further.

They made it through three determined, bleary rounds of strip Wicked Grace, and half of the bottle passed between them, before he managed to get her flimsy nightgown off—which, as he had suspected, was all she wore. She laughed and threw her cards at him, and he batted them away, watching her undress. 

Beautiful in form as she was in spirit. Even if she was not the one he truly wanted, he'd be a fool not to see it.

“I'm not sure how the Anchor will react with your marks, so be wary. I'll try not to touch you with it,” she promised, as he tugged off the rest of his clothing.

“I already am wary. They're painful enough on their own," he said, and when her brows raised in alarm, he amended, "Not enough to stop me from seeking pleasure.”

"Oh, then seek away.” 

She smiled and sighed, as he pushed her against the pillows, and caught her mouth with his. For a time, too dreamlike to measure, she let him forget everything he'd carried with him to this place; if he helped her to do the same, all the better.

 

Fenris woke from his pleasant oblivion with a blinding, but not unexpected headache. 

This was not helped in the least by the amount of hateful sun beaming through the many windows that lined the room, which his sluggish brain supplied him were still the Inquisitor's personal chambers. 

Not a strange and erotic dream, after all.

He groaned and felt around for another pillow to bury his head with, but encountered Lana's shoulder instead. He felt her shift beside him, and heard the sound of pages of parchment rustling against each other. 

Opening one eye suspiciously, he could see she was wide awake, naked beside him, reading a book. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been weeping, but she seemed to have collected herself if that had been the case. 

She regarded him coolly, avoiding his eyes, then plucked something small and solid from atop the pillow holding her book up.

"Here, drink this," she said, and offered him a thin glass vial of opaque liquid, the color of bog water. 

"Adan's hangover cure. He only brews it once a month, so those of us fortunate enough to get some have to hoard it. I'm fairly certain he makes it taste terrible on purpose, because the ingredients he has me gather aren't so pungent on their own."

"Sounds like a cruel fellow," he mumbled, but took it. As she'd warned it tasted foul, but the effects were almost instantaneous.

"No, just grumpy. He has a good heart," she said, looking at him at last, melancholy coloring her expression. 

He remembered then why he was there to begin with.

"I—" he started, but she cut him off.

"If you'd like to clean up, the washstand and such are in through the archway to the left. Breakfast is in the main hall. I imagine you'll want to catch up with Varric. He's usually there, too. If you wish to leave, of course you are free to go. I will make certain you're given no trouble," she said, with a determined kindness he didn't deserve.

Fenris had the feeling that if Hawke were alive, she would have punched him in the face for a variety of reasons. He had not been in his right mind last night, and behaved in a regrettable manner—almost Anders-levels of regrettable—which did not sit well with him at all.

"Of course," he said. Whatever drunken affinity they'd shared the night before, she was correct to firmly detach from it.

Taking her advice, Fenris went to gather his things, slouched in an untidy pile by the bed where he’d left them. He washed up and dressed, Lana ignoring him entirely while she read. 

Flustered, he debated what to do next. 

Hawke had tried to keep him from getting involved here, but why? He could fight. If she was allowed to die to protect him, the world, why hadn't she allowed him to do the same? Why should he be the one forced to keep going? How could she decide what was best for him? 

These questions had consumed him from the moment he'd had word. It was unfair to be loved that much and not be permitted to reciprocate.

As he went to collect his sword, his heart surging with sadness and anger anew, he stepped on one of the playing cards that lay scattered on the carpet. 

Annoyed, when it stuck to his foot, he plucked it off and turned it to see its face. 

On it stood the Angel of Fortitude, with the cracked pillar she supported, the lion subdued at her feet. Isabela claimed the card meant discipline, control and strength, when used in fortune telling—all qualities he clearly needed to build his reserves of.

Not one to much rely on divine signs or luck, Fenris nonetheless tucked the card into his belt, gathering the others and leaving the incomplete deck up on Lana’s mantlepiece. Perhaps he'd have opportunity to replace it one day, like those bedclothes he owed her. For now, it would be a memento, a reminder of his foolishness.

"Fenris," said Lana, when he turned towards the stairs to go.

"Yes, Inquisitor?"

“Tell me—how would you feel about joining the Inquisition? My inner circle and I do a great deal of the resource gathering and recruiting ourselves. Varric I'm sure could describe it much more colorfully, but when we set out again, it will most likely be to finish Corypheus. I'd like you to come,” she said. 

He did not look at her, but out at the snowy mountains, shimmering like jagged teeth in the morning sun. His stomach clenched and twisted. She was inviting him to fight the one really responsible for Hawke dying. How could he refuse?

"You have my sword, for as long as you have use of me," he said, a promise he couldn't have imagined making the day before. 

There were a number of things he couldn't have imagined, before he met the force of nature that was the Herald of Andraste. A mage, but...

He would stay—not only to offer recompense for the Inquisitor’s generosity, but also to, as Lana said, endeavor to be worthy of Hawke's sacrifice.

"Thank you."


	2. Temperence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris catches up with Varric, in the bustling main hall of Skyhold, and meets Solas, Sera, and for a moment Isabela.

Fenris entered Skyhold’s cavernous main hall, via what he came to know as the Garden Door, having again avoided notice. Or, at least, no one taking breakfast in the hall stopped him if they did.

Other than a few curious glances at him from the milling nobles, officers, and hangers-on, the sight of an elf with a large weapon passing through, must have been fairly unremarkable. Such was the effect of a Dalish elf in a position of power, he supposed. 

Varric, naturally, sat in the coziest corner available, a fireplace blazing cheerful and bright at his side. The table in front of him looked suspiciously similar to the one he had often occupied at the Hanged Man.

Writing, the dwarf crouched over a sheet of half-filled parchment, and absently munched on some kind of sugared pastry. He seemed almost content here, oblivious to the world, only his wordsmithing worthy of his concentration. In Kirkwall, he always kept an eyeball on his surroundings; there would be people in his pay nearby, too, to watch the dark corners he couldn’t see.

Perhaps he did have lookouts here, but they were not placed where Fenris could find them. And they weren’t helping him now. So deep were Varric’s thoughts, he didn’t notice Fenris sneaking up behind him, at all.

“Seems you’ve settled in comfortably, dwarf,” he said, perhaps a little louder than necessary.

Varric jumped in his chair, cringing forward, nearly dropping his breakfast. Fenris couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Make a little noise next time. Are you trying to scare me out of my skin?” he complained over his shoulder. He finished scratching down a sentence, though his penmanship was much sloppier than in the lines before it.

“Perhaps. Though it appears the Fear demons had a less permanent effect upon you than they did Marian.”

“You don’t know how hard it was to write that letter.” Varric tossed his pen away angrily, and turned around in his chair.

The nearby torches and fireplace threw harsh shadows over his blunt features; Varric looked older, more battered and touched by the world, and it wasn’t just that his nose seemed to have been broken again. His expression held a mixture of guilt and pain.

Hawke had been his closest friend, and Fenris wasn’t surprised her loss hit him hard, too. What did surprise him, was the pang he felt at Varric’s sadness. Anything left of his anger simply melted away, exposing the bones of their mutual sorrow.

“I do not doubt it.”

Varric winced again, touched his fingers to his forehead as if to shield his eyes, and then looked on in confusion when Fenris simply stood there. He quietly waited for him to recover.

“Aren’t you going to, I don’t know, flip a table at me or something? Yell that I should have tried harder?”

“To what point? It won’t bring her back,” Fenris said.

Also, he already wrecked an entire house full of furniture and the Inquisitor’s boudoir, and... Wanton destruction only helped so much at this point. His friend did not need to know exactly how else he worked out his frustrations the night before.

“Shit, sit down already. I’ve tried. I’ve tried talking to the mages around here—Solas, he’s the resident expert on the Fade—if he says there’s nothing we can do, there’s probably nothing we can do. Maybe if you want to talk to the Inquisitor, I can—”

Varric searched his face, still confused at his relative cross-armed calm, though he didn’t sit.

“I have already spoken to her,” Fenris said.

No one needed to know anything else that happened. Even the slightest hint and Varric would be spinning stories. Not that anything the dwarf conceived of could possibly sound as ridiculous and unlikely as the reality.

“Wait. What? How long have you been here?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he looked at him sidelong.

“As of last night.”

Pushing his chair out to stand, Varric continued to glare, the pieces of Fenris’ story falling together behind his eyes.

“And you’ve already talked to Summer. Does anyone else know? My people seem to be sleeping on the job.”

Varric crossed his arms, his frown deepening. He was probably going down his mental list of people he paid not to get stone drunk, or fall asleep, when assigned to watch the castle’s entrances and weak points.

“I am uncertain,” he said, shrugging. “La—the Inquisitor informed me if I wished to stay, I would not be harassed... and said I should get something to eat,” he said, guessing that “Summer” was Varric’s nickname for the Inquisitor.

“That does sound like her. What are you not telling me? You showed up last night, no warning, no one sees you. I mean, I know we're short-staffed and all, because the army is on their way back from the Arbor Wilds, but—wait a minute...” Varric sniffed the air. “You smell like that fancy Orlesian soap Empress Celene sent Her Inquisitorialness for Satinalia. Summer even let you clean up? What, did you break into her room and sleep on her couch?”

“There was wine, and we talked, and she made certain I was comfortable. No one was injured. Much.” Fenris avoided his eyes, and fidgeting, scratched the back of his neck. No reason to go into it too deeply, when Varric would fill in the blanks on his own, anyway.

“Great! So you did try to attack her?”

“Yes, though I was overpowered with frightening ease. Even for a mage, the Inquisitor has some unusual abilities.”

“Even for a mage. Yeah, well, elf—plenty of people are trying to kill her, so she’s gotten good at killing them back. Just like you. Oh, and don’t let Cullen get wind of this. He’ll have you thrown off the side of a mountain.”

“Of course.” Even when it became clear that the Templars were disintegrating as an order, he recalled that Cullen did not abandon his duties. He had devotedly protected the people and mages under his care when he lived and worked in Kirkwall, and Fenris would expect nothing less of him now.

“Actually, come to think of it, don’t tell anyone anything. I’ll vouch for you, and luckily, since you didn’t annoy Summer too much, you probably won’t get interrogated. Much. Between the Seeker and Nightingale, being thrown off a mountain might be more pleasant. Lucky for you, they're both still out of the castle.”

“I do not intend to test your theory. The Inquisitor is safe from me.”

“Good, because we’ve already got our work cut out for us in this roadshow. I thought I’d seen it all with Hawke, but this, this business is just on another level. It’s just… weird. When it’s not pants-shitting terrifying.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“And yet, somehow, I still manage to clean up at Wicked Grace on the regular.” The dwarf’s brief smile fell into a heavy sigh as he met his eyes, and he ran a hand down his face when Fenris’ eyebrow cocked, and his frown didn’t alter.

“You’ve made friends here,” he said. 

Fenris didn’t mean to sound accusing, as if Varric had somehow conveniently replaced his companions from Kirkwall—replaced Hawke. They’d gone their separate ways, and Varric made friends wherever he went. Why wouldn’t he have them here?

“It’s hard not to when you’re on the road together all the time with people. Like I said, we’ve seen some crazy shit, and-” Already on his guard, Varric’s pained expression shifted to wary.

Someone else was softly approaching the cluttered table.

The visitor’s steps were nearly inaudible, truth be told, like the soft padding stride of a predatory animal. He conveyed the opposite of a presence, some charm or spell, perhaps, which made everything else in the room seem more interesting than looking at him. Very subtle magic, to Fenris’ mind; perhaps he wore some kind of protection amulet. If so, it mostly worked, until he was standing in front them.

“Indeed we have, Master Tethras. Literally and figuratively,” the man said.

Most notably their visitor was tall and broad-shouldered for an elf, perhaps of middle-years, with keen grayish eyes and long, angular features. He had the baldness common to male elves, and dressed so plainly he could have passed for a servant, though he wore no livery.

Fenris wouldn’t have given him much consideration at all, if Varric’s lip hadn’t started to curl in displeasure.

In his experience, only Varric’s brother Bartrand came close in terms of earning so much contempt from one look.

Arms behind his back, and ignoring Varric for the moment, the elf examined Fenris in that aloof, offhand way magisters would, upon first seeing his marks. For once, they seemed to evoke something different; an emotion utterly other than that wide-eyed stare which betrayed a blatant and profane hunger to use him. Nothing covetous about it at all.

The elf almost looked shocked, disgusted, even offended, before he caught himself, though he said nothing of it. Like he knew something of their making, how vile and destructive the marks were.

A mage then, but a very odd one at that. He vaguely reminded Fenris of someone, though he couldn’t place who.

The moment grew awkward, as their guest waited in silence for Varric to introduce them.

“Don’t you have some plaster to paint, Chuckles?” he asked, finally looking up from considering his ink-stained fingernails.

“Not at the moment. The Inquisitor’s defeat of Corypheus will be recorded with the rest of the mural, once accomplished. I assume by his timely arrival, your well-armed friend here wishes to see her do so first hand.”

Fenris got the uneasy feeling that by “well-armed” the mage wasn’t talking about his sword.

“For all your faults, at least you have faith in her. I could almost forgive you,” Varric said, and then made a broad gesture towards him. “Messere Fenris, meet Messere Solas, the resident Fade-obsessed weirdo, and breaker of Summer’s entirely too-kind heart. Solas, meet Fenris. Yes, same glowing elf as in my book. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to catch up with my friend.”

Then Varric made shooing motions at the mage.

“Of course. I apologize for interrupting,” said Solas, his calm expression shifting to irate, then, strangely, sad. He nodded politely at Fenris, and left them be, exiting the hall through the nearest door.

“I feel like the longer I know that guy, the less I know about him. I’m not sure how that’s even possible,” Varric said, and sighed. He took a long swig from his tankard, which was steaming and smelled delectably of stewed fruit, spiced cider, probably.

“Did you say he broke the Inquisitor’s heart?” Fenris asked. Varric had to have been feeling particularly spiteful towards the elf, to bother bringing something like that up in an introduction. Though what it implied about his little imbroglio with the Inquisitor last night, made Fenris feel very uncomfortable.

It never paid to get between two emotionally compromised mages.

“Yeah. It wasn't exactly public knowledge, but it seems like things were getting serious between them, and he got cold feet. You know how it is. Overheard some yelling a few days ago. She’s not letting him off easy.” Varric said,

“What's the phrase? 'The storm brings less fury than the woman scorned?'”

“You've got that right. I don't know the gory details, though. You’d have to hit up Dorian, since he’s a witness. Shit. Then again, maybe don’t.”

“Why?” he asked. The uneasy expression on Varric's face reminded him of their days roaming the alleys of Kirkwall. They might not have seen each other for well over a year, but it didn’t make them immune to falling into old patterns. Making idle prattle with him like this, actually felt comforting.

“Nice enough mage, but he’s from Tevinter. I don’t think you’d get along.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Fenris said. He dragged a chair over, and poured himself a drink. The weak cider blessedly removed the lingering aftertaste of Lana’s effectual, but disgusting hangover cure.

“Yeah, don’t try to kill him, or you’ll have several hundred pounds of angry Qunari on your ass, not to mention Summer,” Varric said, making a slashing motion at his throat.

Fenris snorted. “I don't seem to recall ever meeting this Dorian.”

Interesting that they had Qunari here living in friendship with a Tevinter mage. Perhaps they were Vashoth or Tal-Vashoth, for he couldn't see friendship with a devout Qunari lasting long in such company. The Inquisition certainly didn't lack for diversity in its allies, it seemed.

“That’s never stopped you from killing a magister before.”

“Ah, a magister. Should have been more specific. I will attempt to restrain myself—for the time being.” Whoever he was, he must not have rubbed Varric the wrong way.

“So, what now? Want to stay and help us wipe the floor with Corypheus when he rears his head again?”

“I have no other pressing matters to attend to.”

“You killed all of the slavers working the Waking Sea, already?”

“No. Not as long as Tevinter’s pockets bulge with blood-soaked gold. It will take a while before the ring operating out of Hercinia recovers, however. If at all,” he said, grinning.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Hawke left me behind. I needed something to do.” Something he’d have been doing anyway, but it did serve to keep his mind off of her.

“Yeah. Shit. I’m sorry. I should have brought you up here, whether she liked it or not. Rivaini showed up on her own, I thought you would, too. Maybe I’m too used to thinking of you guys like stray cats. Always around somewhere, dropping in whenever you like.”

Varric had been loyal to Hawke at his expense, which was expected. If Hawke had told him to keep Varric out of her business, Fenris likely would have done the same, and been less apologetic about it, too.

“You should...” he trailed off, and dropped his gaze to the heavy wooden mug in his hands. He had taken his anger, hurt, and frustration, out on everyone but Hawke, who was at the heart of his anguish, and that could not continue. Blaming other people for her choices was wrong. “It does not matter now.”

“Of course it matters. What she did wasn't fair. Some people they’ve just got to go chase that butterfly of fate, or whatever. And sometimes it leads them off a cliff. I don’t know why I thought she’d-”

Before he could finish, or Fenris could reply, they were interrupted again.

This time by a high-pitched scream, which turned most heads in the spacious hall. Hot upon the heels of the screeching, clamored incensed shouts from another source, as their feet pounded closer.

The source of this revealed itself first to be a tall, gangly elf, in red and yellow, who streaked through the main doors, laughing, almost bowling over a messenger. On her head rested a tall, red, feathered hat, which might have been more appropriate on a naval officer—or, perhaps, an ostentatious pirate.

Chasing the elf, and cursing broadly, came a very pissed-off Isabela. Although she couldn’t be too angry, as her knives weren’t out yet.

“Cover me, Varric!” shouted the elf, between snorts of laughter, and the two women began to circle his table.

“Don’t even think about helping her! Give it back, Sera!” Isabela said, as she glared at Varric briefly and then grabbed for the hat; her grinning target bobbed out of the way.

“You’re on your own, Buttercup.”

“Frig!”

The elf jumped onto the table, knocking over Varric’s drink, possibly on purpose, and then leapt up to cling to one of the long curtains that lined the hall.

Scampering towards the rafters, and raining cough-inducing dust from the hangings on everyone below, she managed to cross over to the balcony nearby, with another hoot and cackle of laughter.

“Say hello to Fenris at least, Rivaini!” Varric said, as Isabela darted for the door. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve never seen her get so worked up over a hat,” Fenris said. He and Varric looked at each other, in bemusement. “Boats, yes, books, yes, underwear, yes, but not hats.”

“It’s probably something hidden in the hat, not the thing itself,” said Varric, as he mopped at the spillage with an inadequate handkerchief. Realizing the futility of this after a few seconds, he gave up, and dredged out his writing, which he held out over the ground to let the cider run off of. “Or, they're flirting."

Peering over his friend's shoulder, Fenris could see the smudged ink in some spots made reading them through, impossible.

“Good point,” Fenris said. 

Varric lined up the wet pages on a another part of the table to dry out.

“And that’s a quarter of a manuscript ruined and my drink gone. How about you and I go and spend some time with some normal people?” Varric said, his exasperation having reached its peak—something Fenris would have thought impossible without Hawke present.

“History suggests finding such individuals would involve a tavern.” He supposed that if the Inquisition could put a Dalish mage at its head, funding an ale-house on top of a mountain wasn't much of a stretch of the imagination, either.

“And you would be correct, ser. A bit too tidy for my tastes, but it’s the only watering hole for miles, and the music’s not bad. I’m sure our Rivaini will be by later—with her hat. And maybe Buttercup, too,” he said, glancing up at the balcony, shaking his head.

As they turned to leave the hall, Fenris noticed a stir near the back of it.

The Inquisitor had emerged from her quarters, wearing a set of very expensive-looking armor, her long, pale hair braided tightly to her head. With the light from the stained-glass pouring over her from behind, as she engaged with the couriers and advisers who swarmed her, she looked almost ethereal. 

Their eyes caught from across the room, and seeming surprised, she immediately looked away from him.

Varric caught him frowning and looking dazzled, and laughed. “She has that effect on people.”

“Remind you of anyone?” Fenris said, with a grimace.

“Yup. Peas in a pod. Very lively peas, though. The sort of peas who drag you into bogs full of undead while it’s raining,” Varric said.

“You’re exhausting the metaphor.”

“Hawke was exhausting,” he countered. “And yet, I still can’t believe the world can go on without her in it.”

“Who says it has?” Fenris said, as they made their way down the stairs to the courtyard. 

They were almost to the bottom, when a company of Inquisition cavalry rode in, thunderously, most of the riders breaking right as they slowed. A dark-haired woman with the hairy eyeball of her order emblazoned on her livery, jumped off her mount, and headed in their direction, though she was clearly focused on reaching the entrance to the hall.

“Oh look, the Seeker’s back,” Varric said. “Let’s get that drink. Things are about to heat up.”


	3. Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris meets a few more members of the Inner Circle, and has an audience with the Inquisition's spymaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this too long, so I'm just going to publish it. If there are any glaring errors, let me know.

“What’ll you have, this fine morning, Master Tethras? Your usual?” Moments after they sat down, a sleepy, redheaded human barmaid swooped down upon their table. Her eyes slid past Fenris and settled on Varric, the known quantity.

“Don’t worry about me for right now, Em, I’m pretty sure my friend here is almost literally starving.” Varric grinned up, while emphatically waving her to Fenris. 

Em looked him up and down, as if trying to discern his origins and importance in relation to Varric—and whether he’d cause any trouble. As Varric had threatened, Skyhold’s well-stocked tavern, the Herald’s Rest, was tidy and well-lit—smelling pleasantly of fresh pine, woodsmoke, and the warm tang of spilled beer. Nary a rat, raucous fight, nor puddle of vomit to be seen.

“And what will you have, ser? It’s good to see another Dalish like our Inquisitor, up here.”

Fenris smiled slightly and shook his head.

“Nay, miss, I am not of her people. Sorry to disappoint.” Unlike the markings worn by Dalish adults, his vallaslin commemorated nothing more than the misery brought upon him by his late master. He did not expect most people to know the difference. 

“Not at all, ser. My mistake. We get folks from all over here in Skyhold—elves, dwarves, Qunari, Avvar. Where do you hail from, if I may ask?” Em’s warm, steady smile made him feel at ease.

“Tevinter, late of Kirkwall.”

“Ah! You and Master Tethras know each other from there, then? Do you know the Lady Admiral, too?” By ‘Admiral’ she must mean Isabela. 

“Indeed,” he said, and then asked for a sampling of what they had available. Varric would cover his tab, until he could scrape together enough to pay him back, or do a job for him.

Em nodded, flitting off behind the bar, returning soon after with a mug full to the brim with cider, and a metal plate heaped with stuffed pastries and sausages. Likely all come from the same kitchen as the feast in the hall. 

From their warm alcove, settled in with breakfast, he and Varric unabashedly people-watched. 

They saw tired messengers rubbing their eyes, haunted-looking soldiers come in and slump down heavily into their chairs, servants resting their heads on the tables, between shifts. Most of the patrons in military uniforms were dirty and exhausted, and in need of real refreshment. Meanwhile, chatting civilians and masked nobles alike, bumped elbows, passing on the stairs to and from the next level. 

Fenris didn’t notice any of them trying to pickpocket. A very different sort of crowd compared to what he was used to. He detected among these people, a sense of camaraderie, but also a sense of restraint and decorum; a sense of pride, but also of relentless cheer. 

Perhaps the cheerfulness was more due to the jaunty songs the tavern’s bard was playing. She seemed quite talented, if energetic, for so early in the day.

By midday, he’d heard most of her repertoire, and Varric had filled him in on certain high points of his oft terrifying and bizarre adventures with the Inquisition. Some of which Fenris knew of from his letters, but the tales told lost some of their color when on the page, instead of looking his friend in the eyes.

Such tales couldn’t quite prepare him for just how strange the world he’d rushed into could get, either.

“Top of the stairs, panting, pulse-pounding, pinpricks racing under my skin. Soon this pain will end,” said a thin, affectless voice to Fenris’ right, startling him. With a shade of what the words might mean registering, he felt the lyrium under his skin flare. 

Warily drawing back, he looked up at the figure, who had more materialized than approached their table; a pale, gangly young human wearing a floppy hat and ragged, mismatched clothing. He stood a little too close, his bony, long-fingered hands twisting together in front of him. Fenris thought he smelled of the Fade, but couldn’t discern why. 

An abomination, perhaps?

“And then she was real. The cards fall, brandy on both your tongues. You held her, but it didn’t help her. Or you,” he continued. 

“Uh, Cole, maybe you could come back later. I don’t think he’s ready for you yet,” Varric said, though he sounded more like he was offering guidance, as much as admonishment. 

“Sorry,” said the youth. He turned away, and disappeared, leaving Fenris alarmed that Varric wasn’t more alarmed. 

“Was he...”

“Spirit. No, he’s not possessing anyone, he’s just… embodied. Somehow. Sort of. He’s weird.”

“What did he mean?”

“You’ve got me. If I understand this right, he’s a Compassion spirit. So if you’re in pain, or connected to someone in pain, he feels it, like your feelings are in the air, or something. He picks up on them and has to try to help,” Varric said. “It’s a compulsion, even if he’s terrible at it.”

“Wonderful.” The last thing he needed was a spirit of any ilk spreading it around that he’d done more than talk with the Inquisitor. Not that the spirit’s words couldn’t have referred to Hawke, but Fenris had the feeling they didn’t.

“Mostly weird. But that, too. Most of the time you won’t notice him, and he can make you forget he was ever there.”

“I like that even less.”

“Apparently, spirits do it all the time.”

“I did not need to know that.” Fenris looked around nervously.

“Yeah, I’d prefer not to have my memories meddled with either. Unless there’s a spirit of Inspiration hanging out around here somewhere. I wouldn’t mind a hand with my manuscript,” he said, laughing into his mug.

“Don’t encourage them, my friend.”

A tall, handsome, mustachioed man approached their table. Even if Fenris hadn’t heard his aristocratic Tevinter accent, he had the angular, over-refined look of a Tevinter noble. Polished, from his trim facial hair, to the metal toes of his boots; everything about him said wealth and privilege. A mage, too, if the worked leather of the stave strap on his shoulder was anything to go by. 

Giving them a friendly, somewhat dashing smile—which offset the sour feeling in Fenris’ gut—the newcomer slithered into the empty seat next to Varric. Then he placed an engraved silver goblet on the table in front of him, and began filling it from a bottle of wine he’d brought with him. 

“You’ll only end up in despair when it runs off with some half-wit minstrel, and nary a goodbye. I’m Dorian, by the way. Of House Pavus. I’ll take it you’re the terrifying, tattooed elf the lads out in the yard are gossiping about. Fenris is it?”

“I am.” Fenris crossed his arms at him, leaning back. He couldn’t see Varric’s expression, but he heard his chair creak as he sat forward.

“A man of few words. Delightful! More room for me to interject. Varric, I understand our Seeker returned wearing the aspect of a thundercloud, and made straight for the Inquisitor. You wouldn’t happen to know more?” 

“You’ve got me. I try to avoid her when she’s like that.”

“Wise man. I suppose we’ll find out when everyone else does. The Chantry folk have all been so uneasy, since that ancient elven temple was found so well-preserved.”

“Elven temple?”

Dorian flashed his polished smile at Fenris again, clearly pleased to have gotten his attention. 

“Corypheus has been out scrounging for magical artifacts, to try to gain even more power. In doing so, he disturbed a very unusual enclave of elves. These chaps not only look and fight unlike anyone any of us has seen, they claim to have slept for centuries, waking only to protect their temple.”

“An illusion of the Fade perhaps? Magic can twist one’s thoughts with ease.”

“I am familiar with what you speak of, and this was... different. Solas seemed to find them credible. Utter nonsense, if you listen to Cassandra.” Dorian looked thoughtful, even worried.

“The more I hear about the Seeker, the more I like her. What manner of temple was it, in any case?” Fenris asked. His own knowledge of elven history was not thorough, though he tried to read widely, now that he could. 

“Wasn’t it dedicated to Mythal? Most of her statues actually had heads this time,” said Varric.

“A goddess of justice, vengeance, and motherhood, I think. Has some affinity for dragons, too. Her sentinel claimed she was murdered, not locked up in some ethereal prison, as legend would have it. It’s a shame they didn’t stay to chat, we could’ve learned so much from them.”

“I don’t blame them. Watching a magic pond for a thousand years, sounds pretty dull,” Varric said.

“The temple even had a working elven mirror—as does Skyhold, apparently.”

“Eluvian. They’re called eluvians,” said Fenris. 

“Oh! You’ve seen one before?” Dorian looked at him, surprised and not a little excited.

“A friend of ours in Kirkwall was trying to restore one,” Varric said, and gave Fenris a warning glance. He frowned back at him. 

“Really? I should like to meet them.”

“She’s a bit busy at the moment taking care of the alienage there, but I’m sure I could ask her if you could compare notes, Sparkler. At least there’s not a demon involved this time.”

“That you know of,” Fenris said, under his breath.

“I would greatly appreciate that, Varric. Morrigan has been less than forthcoming, and Solas—well, you know.” Dorian made a hopeless gesture.

“He’s a bag of dicks,” said Varric.

“I wouldn’t have gone that far,” Dorian said, with an awkward laugh.

“Can’t help it, still mad.”

Dorian clapped Varric’s shoulder. “You’re more angry about this than she is, my friend. I have to say, I think Solas has the right of it. She deserves better than some mangy, malodorous hedge-mage with no prospects. Were you hoping for a sweeping romance to carry your tale?”

“It does put some kinks in the narrative, yeah.” The disappointed dwarf sighed and looked around the taproom, then withdrew a deck of cards from his coat pocket. Fenris scowled as he started shuffling them. It would only draw more people to their table.

“I don’t mind kinks.” The mage giggled and flourished his goblet at Varric. 

“I already know enough about what goes on between you and Tiny.”

“And I don’t doubt you’ll hear more. One of the members of his delightful company knitted me a scarf. I think I’ve been adopted.”

Varric started dealing out cards. “That’s adorable. Two sovereigns says you get seven pairs of socks for Satinalia. I imagine they’ll have nugs embroidered on them along with the days of the week.”

Rolling his eyes at Varric, Fenris picked up the cards he’d been dealt. Meanwhile, Dorian was bent over the table laughing like an agitated peacock. 

“I can’t afford another bet with you. Or to play cards—unless we’re playing for toothpicks,” said the mage, catching his breath and wiping his eyes.

“Get a loan from Ruffles, she knows you’re good for it.”

“She controls my stipend, that’s hardly fair.”

“You could always write back home.”

“I could also sprout nug ears and a charming third eye. Both are about as likely.”

“You’ve had a falling out with your family?” Fenris asked. He knew little of House Pavus, other than they had a seat in the Magisterium; that alone told him all he needed to know. They were powerful, wealthy, and without a doubt, kept slaves.

“Indeed. Getting tangled up in saving the world perhaps wasn’t the most obvious direction to take, but it’s excellent for gaining perspective on one’s own problems.”

Fenris snorted. “Minuscule to the point of irrelevancy, then?” Regardless of the man’s ostensible hardships, he could not have been less impressed.

“I do occasionally become cross when we run into darkspawn and undead at the same time. They have no appreciation for technique or skill,” Dorian said, as they both turned to look towards a group of sweaty, scar-faced mercenaries who were tromping by. 

“Don’t forget the demons,” said the first of them, a huge Qunari wearing a metal eyepatch. The Qunari knocked heavily on the surface of their table as he passed, sauntering towards the bar. Dorian smiled after him.

“Or the Venatori,” said the next, a short-haired swordsman wearing a towel around his neck. He followed the Qunari. 

“Or the Red Templars!” said a pretty, freckle-faced, female dwarf, trailing behind. Though upon closer inspection, she wore an Inquisition uniform. She smiled and hopped into the open seat next to Fenris. 

“I’m Scout Harding. Welcome to where the mayhem starts.”

“Very funny, Harding. This is my old friend Fenris,” Varric said. “From Kirkwall.”

“Of course you are,” she said, brightly, grinning wider. He thought she might have been blushing. “Deal me in Varric.”

Varric looked at her sidelong. “I dunno. Last time it seemed like you had an odd run of luck.”

“So I’ve got more to bet,” Harding said. 

“I can’t argue with that logic.” He winked at her, and dealt her a hand. 

Over the next hour the game ebbed and flowed; people came to their table, threw a few coins into the pot, and folded when duty called. Most of them, but for the Bull’s Chargers, were in uniform. 

Isabela and her elven friend were nowhere to be seen, though that didn’t mean she was avoiding him. He did wish she would stop by to catch up, however.

Fenris never truly got a good hand that night. It didn’t help that he found himself concentrating more on the people passing through the tavern, than on making the best of his cards. Fenris watched Dorian and Bull snipe affectionately at each other; Bull’s lieutenant, Krem, rolling his eyes at his boss’ sense of humor no less than three times. Harding traded traveling stories with Varric, and they and a small group of Inquisition soldiers, all settled on the western desert as the worst place to get deployed to that wasn’t the Deep Roads.

A feeling of wistfulness caught him up; of how familial these people were, how it reminded him of those early years in Kirkwall when they were all young and desperate. 

How Marian would have loved this.

“Hey, elf. Your turn,” Varric said.

Fenris stopped staring into space, and blinked at him, realizing he was getting the ‘Are you okay?’ look from him for brooding.

“Sorry,” he said, and gave Varric his ‘Am I ever?’ look, back, as he drew a card. Again, nothing helpful.

“Is your hand that bad?” One side of Varric’s mouth turned up, his expression sympathetic.

Fenris gave him an annoyed grunt. “Terrible.”

Moments later, a lull came over the tavern; his back stiffened as he heard footsteps approaching their table from behind him.

This latest member of the Inquisition was a rangy, flint-eyed elf, her white hair bound back in braids. She moved like the sort of person who usually had at least ten knives hidden on her body, but would settle for anything at hand to kill with. 

He seemed to have her full attention.

“Ser, if you could come with me?” she asked, without preamble or greeting. Though her voice was soft, it might as well have been an order. 

He looked to Varric for a bit of back-up, and heard the dwarf curse under his breath. From the hush that had come over the rest of the table, she had to have some kind of reputation.

“One of our spymaster’s people. You remember Sister Nightingale, right? Well, now she does a lot of information gathering for Summer,” he said, and his tone did not reassure. “Dyer, was it?” Varric was squinting at her, like it took him a moment to mentally summon up her name.

“Yes, Master Tethras. My lady only wishes to ask you a few questions, ser,” she said, her face impassive.

Fenris raised his eyebrow at his friend. Varric shrugged, as if to say he should just go along with it, for now. 

“I see. I suppose you did warn me.” There was no way that this didn’t have to do with his unusual “audience” with the Inquisitor the night before.

“If you don’t come back in an hour, I’ll send my own representative—Bianca.”

He nodded and rose to follow the agent. “My thanks, dwarf.” 

 

*****

His path had intersected with Sister Nightingale's only once before, in passing: a lavish party held by an Orlesian duke some years previous. If she even remembered him, it would be surprising; she had had eyes only for Hawke at the time.

But she did remember.

“Fenris, it is good to see you. My deepest condolences, with regards to Hawke. I hope you have been able to find some solace in what must be a truly difficult time.” She sounded genuine, even if her eyes were a bit cool. 

“It has, Sister.” 

The elf who’d brought him here through the main hall, had already disappeared. Looking around the warm, stone-walled room, it appeared that he’d been taken to the antechamber to a larger room, hidden behind a closed door across from them. A large, unoccupied desk littered with scrolls and papers took up one corner, while a pair of ornate chairs sat in front of the fireplace; for some reason, a copper bathtub lay on its side near the thick oak door they’d come through. 

“Please, sit. This is only a formality.”

Sister Nightingale wore a deep, purplish cowl with her armor, but he could see her red hair peeking out at the edges. Like her agent, none of her weapons were currently visible; watching her stalk the floor like an impatient cat, he suspected she could also have a knife at his throat well before he could draw his sword. In such close quarters, he’d have to rely on his tattoos and the dagger at his belt, if this came down to a fight. 

She gestured at one of the wooden armchairs, though she made no motion to sit herself. Looming somehow, despite the fact he was slightly taller than her, she waited for him to comply. 

He really did not wish to. For one, sitting in front of a fire in a comfortable chair with drink still clouding his head, Fenris was not in the best state to defend himself. Second of all, he wanted to have freedom of movement. Nonetheless, he decided not to test her patience. 

“Ah. My friends seemed alarmed you wished to speak.“ 

She cocked her head to the side, wearing a curious expression. “An abrupt invitation, yes, but then, so was your arrival. Tell me, what motivated you to visit our Inquisitor in the dead of night?” 

Fenris bristled at the steely edge to her voice.

“I needed answers about what happened to Hawke. The Inquisitor had them,” he said.

“I see. How did you get past our sentries, though? The magic protecting this place is very strong. I must know, so that it does not happen, again.”

“It is no great secret that my tattoos allow me to pass through objects briefly, entering was not difficult. Even if I lacked such advantages, your guards seem to be stretched very thin. Varric claims most of your forces are still in the south. Perhaps you should have left this place better defended.” 

“Indeed. I suppose the Tale of the Champion must have some truth to it, for Cassandra to have put so much faith in Hawke. How kind of you to have offered your talents to our cause, in Lady Marian’s stead.” She began to pace. “Still, I am troubled. Inquisitor Lavellan has commanded that you are to be provided with quartering and pay, while you remain with us. I can not help but be concerned that she is a little too trusting. She is a lovely woman; warm and sweet. Easy to take advantage of.”

“How so?” A tremor of fear wormed its way down his spine. Kindness had little to do with his choice, but contradicting her did not seem prudent, and he truly did not wish to talk about it. 

From her gauntlet, she produced a length of shredded cloth, torn from a larger whole, and tossed it into his lap. 

“This came from the Inquisitor’s own bed this morning. The laundress brought it to me. There were also reports of flashes of light seen coming from her quarters at an early hour. You were seen exiting a passage leading from the Inquisitor’s tower, early this morning, though you were never seen entering. I examined her room myself, after she went to have her weekly luncheon with the Inquisition mages. There were a few things of interest— papers scattered, torn fabric, empty bottles, a nightgown hanging over a toppled candelabra. An interesting night for you both, then, no?” Nightingale watched the blood drain from his face, with an almost sinister delight.

“I wish her no harm, Sister,” he said, firmly, uncertain why she taunted him with her discoveries. “For better or for worse, I have joined your cause.”

“I am pleased to hear it. The woman recruits everyone she meets, friend and foe. She even recruited a bear, once.” Her wry grin did nothing to alleviate his unease.

“That must create certain... challenges.” 

“Challenges which we face with the care they deserve. You are one of her more valuable alliances, to my mind, if you truly mean her no harm. As such, I hope you will consider my offer,” she said.

“What do you propose?” 

“Your skills are very special. It is also well known, due to Varric’s book, that you have experience as a bodyguard for a mage.”

He gripped the arms of the chair, almost standing up and stalking out. “Is there such a shortage of skilled fighters?”

“In a word, yes. The Inquisitor does have an existing honor guard, which our Commander arranges. However, her position has become exponentially more precarious, since the events at Halamshiral.” 

“Do her friends and companions do so poor a job?”

“They are quite competent, provided they are around to help. Once Corypheus is dealt with, many of her closest and most powerful companions will be forced to resume their responsibilities. Our own Seeker Pentaghast will be made Divine, Madame De Fer will likely wish to return to Val Royeaux to aid in the restoration of the Circles; Ranier is pledged to the Grey Wardens. Even your mutual friend Varric, will want to go back to Kirkwall, eventually, I imagine. She will need someone always at her back, particularly when she is in the city.”

Fenris shook his head. “You seem confident that she will succeed against that monster.” 

“I do believe the Maker sent her to us, and I have faith that she can guide us to victory against Corypheus. We are closing in on him, his forces are a shambles. It is only a matter of time. I will protect her and the Inquisition she leads, and even after.” 

A peculiar fire lit her eyes, which Fenris could only attribute to zeal. Nightingale worked directly for Divine Justinia, before the Conclave explosion. Not quite as single-minded as Meredith, but every bit as faithful to the Chantry, it would seem.

“Perhaps you would be a better fit as her bodyguard.“

“Sadly, my position within the Inquisition forces me to do a great deal of delegation, though I do take on that responsibility when needed. I want someone whose skills I trust, to be there when I cannot. Very well, let me make this opportunity a little more pertinent to your interests. Not only will you receive additional pay atop the regular Inquisition wage, if you take up this task, but I would be willing to allow you access to certain Inquisition intelligence. If this happened to contain information regarding slavers operating in the free territories, you could make use of it as you saw fit.”

“Intriguing. Is there more?” 

Her smile was warmer this time. “You are just as bright as I imagined; our protocols should be no trouble for you to pick up. While you are on duty, I will need you to make note of anything unusual; rumors, bits of gossip, intercepted correspondence and the like. When you return, you will report to me directly.”

She spoke as if an assent had crossed his lips.

“Don’t you have enough spies, Sister?”

Nightingale looked at him over her shoulder, and smiled. “Never enough. May I count on your aid?

Fenris sank down in his seat a little, sighing tiredly. He had the distinct impression that she had swooped in to put him and his skills to work, before one of the other Inquisition leaders could make claim. The Nightingale was quite the savvy woman. He had no real reason to object, other than working with the Inquisitor directly might be somewhat… awkward. Yet, Nightingale offered valuable information which he would have to otherwise spend his own resources to acquire. 

Awkwardness he could suffer, if it meant he could make headway against the loathsome individuals fueling the Tevene slave trade and empowering the equally despicable Magistrate.

“I am no bard, but I think I understand what it is we can do for each other.” Thinking they had nothing more which needed saying, he threw the wadded cloth she’d tossed so accusingly at him earlier, into the crackling fire. 

Her mouth twitched, but she did not complain.

“Indeed. You may go. I have a meeting I am already late for. Maker be with you.” 

Fenris did not hesitate to make for the door, which opened inward as he reached for the handle. 

Once again he found himself staring straight into Lana’s bright green eyes. This time, instead of facing her with open rage or chagrin, he had his guard up. 

“Fenris?”

“Inquisitor,” he said, and ducked out past her, into the hall.


	4. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris decides to look into rescuing Hawke, and seeks out Solas for answers.

The Inquisitor’s castle held few comforts for Fenris.

The sights and sounds of Skyhold were little different from those which permeated similar places he’d been—grunts from soldiers out in the dusty practice yard, the bronze bell which gonged deeply once every hour, ravens flying in and out from the eaves from sunrise to sunset. These things wouldn’t have been out of place in Kirkwall, or even parts of Minrathous.

Like them, the castle was steeped, top to bottom, in ancient magic. Despite the snow and ice outside, the average temperature within might as well have been that of a warm spring afternoon. Puddles of snowmelt regularly collected in the courtyard; it did not become a mudpit, because the thin layer of earth there concealed a deeper layer of flagstones beneath. Rumor had it, that the bones of the original structure were elven, flattened and rebuilt on top of over the ages by many different hands.

Uneasy as the Inquisitor’s headquarters made him, it helped to remind himself that his stay was unlikely to be extensive. Nightingale would send his orders, and he’d be sent out, soon enough. In the meantime, distracted by his friends’ familiar chatter and the tavern’s passable wine, Fenris felt more himself than he had in weeks.

Neither Varric or Isabela seemed to notice, but his grief over Marian, began to transform. Shifting from bare-hearted anger, to something more slippery. Part of him was convinced that she couldn’t be gone. They’d been apart so long, it was as if she were still on a jaunt stretching out a bit longer than planned. He needed to be patient, she could surprise him any moment.

Thus, his need for closure led him down another unlikely path.

The Inquisitor and her advisors were nowhere to be seen, even in passing, for days. They had closeted themselves away as they planned their next initiative against Corypheus. If Nightingale had anything for him to do, she hadn’t sent notice.

His time for now was his own.

Today, Fenris intended to seek out the oddball mage his friend demonstrated such disdain towards. He had no pride when it came to Hawke, he would beg for aid if he had to. Varric wanted him to abandon her to the Fade, but if there was any chance, any chance at all...

Common wisdom here, held that the mage spent much of his time pottering about, in what Skyhold’s varied and colorful residents called the Rotunda—a large, curved, echoing chamber off the main hall. The room contained little but a cluttered desk, braziers, and paint-spattered scaffolding; a passing maid informed him, that the high, curved walls, were painted in fresco by the mage in his spare time.

The frescoes themselves looked beautiful—almost out of place. More suited to a palace or a public forum, than a towering hold hidden in the mountains. Red and orange and black, white and gold and blue; the angular forms as writ, boldly described the heroic actions of the Lady Inquisitor, and the events preceding her rise to power.

Where and how an elf could become both a master mage and a master painter, while a free man, Fenris could only wonder. Such skills required phenomenal amounts of time, practice, and dedication to excel at; typically for an artist, this would include a patron of some kind. Elves, to his knowledge, did not often receive such patronage, here, or in Tevinter.

What kind of checkered past allowed an elf to find a willing teacher for both disciplines, along with earning some very unique knowledge of the Fade? The mage had to have passed checks by the Inquisition leadership, including Sister Nightingale—but demons could be subtle.

Probing the mage’s background was not his primary reason for seeking him out, however; as such, he tucked the suspicious thought away to the back of his mind. He wanted this mage’s aid, after all.

There were a number of otherwise unthinkable things he would do for Marian’s sake—which was likely also why she’d left him behind.

The mage did not return to the Rotunda, thus Fenris began asking after him elsewhere.

He explored the busy castle without difficulty; word traveled fast that the Inquisitor had a new guest. Her trust granted him access to much of the main complex. Startlingly, he found himself greeted by name a few times, by passing guards and otherwise occupied servants. These were faces he’d seen in the Herald’s Rest, and in the practice yard, people who lived and worked here, and, apparently, kept tabs on outsiders.

Trying to stay out of the way, he searched from the still sleepy tavern, to the Inquisition stables—almost a menagerie, full of exotic beasts, dracolisks penned across from the harts and horses. From there, he followed a hidden stairway which turned out to belong to the kitchen and pressed past the dough-slinging army working to get breakfast out.

One of the cooks commented from over her mixing bowl that he could help himself. Not wanting to disappoint, Fenris grabbed a fresh, steaming-hot roll from one of the cooling racks. He nibbled on it, making his way through the ancient vaults and cellars where new treasures seemed to have been piled atop the old.

Across and up again, took him to the library. Positioned as it was above the Rotunda, this gave him the chance to see if the mage had come back to his usual haunt. He hadn’t; Fenris turned around and ran his eyes along the stacks, noting with a chuckle, that there seemed to be an entire shelf devoted to Varric’s books.

Running out of places to search, Fenris finally took to the stark grey battlements. He almost didn’t think to check the roof, but that was where he found him.

Crouched like a hermit on the blustery top of the northmost tower, the mage sat primly on a weathered crate in the far corner. Doubly hidden, his face deep in a cowl, he leaned into the crenelations behind him. The wind did not seem to touch him at all.

Fenris noted with interest that an embossed silver cup dangled from his long fingers. Likely, holding the contents of the expensive-looking bottle of wine uncorked at his feet.

Most people did not have unwatered wine this early in the day, unless they were drunkards, in pain, or failing spectacularly to deal with some other nebulous and difficult issue in their life—all problems which Fenris had familiarity with. He could hardly judge the man for it.

“I would offer to share, but I fear the dregs are already in my cup,” the mage said, looking up, raising a thin eyebrow at his visitor. “Master Tethras made much of your appreciation of wine in his book.” He didn’t look or sound drunk; with his heavy, musical accent, it would be hard to tell.

Fenris couldn’t help noticing from where he stood, that one could get both a spectacular view of the mountains and valley— but also, almost see directly into the Inquisitor’s lofty quarters. Whatever romantic follies transpired between the Inquisitor and her mage companion, regrets were clearly being had.

“That is a polite way of putting it,” said Fenris. To be fair, Varric met him at a particularly troubled part of his life. That was how Varric met most people.

“I can offer little more. You have come to ask what the prospects are for rescuing Hawke, I expect.”

“I did. Varric mentioned you had some wisdom regarding the Fade, ah Messere-”

“Solas,” his clipped tone made Fenris suspect he was irritated he’d forgotten his name so quickly.

“Messere Solas, then. I have also spoken with the Inquisitor. She said if anyone would know her fate it would be you.”

“True, but I will not mislead you in this. I cannot tell you with any precision what occurred after we left the Fade. I do know that the Nightmare demon was not destroyed, not completely.”

“You believe she died to it.”

“I-”

Solas sighed, and ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me, I am not sleeping well of late. Yes, it is unlikely she could have survived for long. Once we escaped through the Inquisitor’s rift, she would have had to fight on alone.”

“Unlikely? But possible.”

“I am reluctant to speak in absolutes, when it comes to what is and is not possible with regards to the Fade. However, the spirits which inhabit the part of it we were in, are generally malicious—unhelpful at best—and the Nightmare demon itself, very powerful. Even if she killed such a being, once exposed to the raw Fade, she would have been helpless. Without the Inquisitor’s anchor present, or aid both profound and miraculous, she would have had no way to keep the world around her from shifting wildly.”

“Why?”

“The Fade shifts constantly. It reacts instinctively to the subtleties of one’s thoughts and emotions. To traverse it merely in dreams, requires deep calm, incredible determination and intense focus. Physically, lacking a guide, a point of reference, or some stabilizing force, one person alone would be lost forever. I am sorry.”

“What if she did find a guide?”

“Then anything I might say would still be utter speculation as to her fate, further instilling you with false hope. I have seen much that is extraordinary, and that includes Hawke’s courage. Hold your best memories close; sometimes that is all you have left.”

The mage looked away and took a drink, as if he thought their conversation over.

“I suppose Varric was right.”

Solas chuckled. “In this matter, perhaps.”

“You’ve had some disagreements with my friend?”

“We have incompatible philosophies; he has resigned himself to certain realities, where I would work to change them. And... I have badly hurt the Inquisitor, though that was never my intention.” The mage’s face took a despairing cast, deeper than before.

“I see. Best take care, he will write you into his book.”

This pulled another low laugh from the mage. “Then I shall look forward to what will most likely be an entertaining interpretation of events. It is seldom that a person’s complete character can be captured by a single source. Clearly you are not just the angry, often intoxicated former slave you were so delicately portrayed as, in the “Tale of the Champion”.”

“A good point. I am pleased not to be his enemy.”

“Indeed. I am curious now—your vallaslin.”

“Yes? What of it?”

“Do the brands trouble you? They appear to have been applied by a mediocre hand. I imagine they must burn at the very least.”

Fenris wasn’t sure what it was about his tone of voice, but it made Fenris’ skin prickle. There was that layer of distaste and pity, again. Mediocre? What did he know of such things?

“On occasion. Why should it concern you?” They hurt, as ever, but after so many years of bearing them, he had become somewhat accustomed to it.

“I am uncertain whether they can be repaired at this point, but I may know a way to remove them safely, if you wish. Else, they will continue to destabilize.”

“Destabilize?”

“The spell was wrought poorly. It is shameful you were made to bear the marks at all, knowing nothing of their meaning, or their purpose, but—”

“I know well enough their purpose,” Fenris said, his irritation with the mage growing.

“Do you?”

“If nothing else, they made me strong enough to kill the one who did this to me,” he said.

Solas did not seem fazed by the threat behind his words.

“And, eventually, as they are, they will cost you your entire mind, and then your life.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have seen much while dreaming in the Fade; Lyrium poisoning seldom has a pleasant outcome. Even if you do nothing, it would be remiss of me not to make you aware.”

Something Lana had said jumped forward in Fenris’ mind. “Is that what you did to her? To the Inquisitor? Took her tattoos?”

“I did.” Anger clouded the mage’s face.

“Why?”

“Subject to time’s erosion of memory, like all Dalish, Ladarelan was tattooed as a right of passage. The Dalish don’t remember what the vallaslin meant when Arlathan was at its height. Such markings would have proclaimed her a slave. Open to all of the kinds of suffering and abuses I am certain you are only too aware of. Of all of the things that we were, of all the things to have kept, for our people to have held onto that.”

“I don’t understand.” The mage spoke almost as if the marks were a personal insult.

Solas looked at Fenris, his mouth twisting somewhere between a sneer and a pained grin.

“Few people do. Fewer wish to believe.”

Fenris shook his head, chuckling. “You sound like that old witch Hawke and I met on Sundermount. Though I doubt she was drunk.”

“I am not…” The mage looked at the cup still in his hand, then set it down gently in the gap between the stones, with the smallest clink of metal. “Then again, perhaps I am. Come by the Rotunda, later. I may be able to help you, if you wish it. I will try to clear my head.”

Despite his misgivings, he did know that the mage might have seen something he could not. Danarius had often forced him to endure hours of testing and adjustments to his tattoos—all meant to make him more powerful as well as more pliant. It wouldn’t be surprising if his former master had intended for him to die of it eventually, if he wasn’t there to maintain the spells.

“I think I shall.”

****

Thus, the evening found Fenris sitting, stripped to the waist, in what appeared to be an ancient forge built into the back of the hold.

Open to the air on one side, he could look into the moonlit wilderness beyond, the night sky blurred by the rush of a half-frozen waterfall and icicles lining the edges like a dragon’s maw. The undercroft held onto the heat of the day’s work quite nicely, though; his skin did not prickle, except when the mage’s fingers brushed against him.

Why Solas led him here, away from the Rotunda, wasn’t immediately obvious. The mage began casting protective wards and purification glyphs around them, so it seemed he meant to prepare a work area. Soon, they were joined by Dorian, who looked unusually serious, and a painfully chipper dwarf by the name of Dagna.

All three of them were staring at him, now, rather like he were a druffalo with a bit of fence trapped around its neck.

“Do you see what he’s done to him, Dorian? I am trying to walk back the steps that fool worked into the shielding, but it’s so incredibly unintuitive. So much of the Circle magic I’ve seen adds extra steps, and convolutions. Notice where he took the reactive barrier and twisted it, then amended a rejuvenation spell into what seem like his own inventions. Just to suture together the portions of the magic he did not comprehend. Like here—it’s much worse on his shoulders.”

Solas traced a line in the air along the path of the tattoo, and Fenris could feel his magic prodding underneath. Whatever the mage could see woven there beyond the branches and swirls of his marks, was invisible to his eyes. The brightening blue glow of the lyrium, betrayed his agitation.

“I admit I have seen something similar, but only for use in architecture. I wouldn’t have thought to apply it to a living being.”

“Precisely. It’s horrific.”

“But it works!” chirped Dagna. “It seems like he was trying to extend an intensifying rune, and see here, these lines connect them to modified hale runes. If the pattern follows, there are nineteen locus points, which maintain the field. So pretty.”

“Yes, at each main joint and body mass. I suspect they exist to keep him from ripping apart once the lyrium is activated. It’s clever, I’ll give it that, but not worth the cost to the one who must bear it. There is nothing built in to mitigate long-term stress. They have degraded somewhat, leaving him vulnerable to the lyrium leaching into his flesh. And… Fenris, it seems you don’t have enough inherent magic to burn it off completely, but just enough that it hasn’t killed you. The lyrium doesn’t seem to be depleting.” Solas crossed his arms, and walked a slow circle around him.

Dorian sighed, and regarded Fenris. “It seems then, that crusty old bastard turned you into a hybrid rune of some sort, my friend. Dagna, is this how the dwarves make golems?”

“Maybe a little. There’s a different process—most of which was lost with the Anvil of the Void. I’m pretty sure it involves getting molten lyrium dumped on your head, though. And golems are usually bound to external control rods. He’s not, I don’t think.”

“All of my external controllers are dead, to my knowledge. Unless Magisters have learned to function without hearts, since I’ve been gone,” Fenris said, smirking at the dwarf.

Behind her, Dorian snorted, then cleared his throat.

“Anyway, the pattern engraved into you, is much closer to a rune,” Dagna continued. “Runes don’t think, they just do. Some require a touch or a thought from the user to activate. That makes me wonder—what if all elvish tattoos used to have lyrium woven into them? Some of the patterns I’ve seen look like they have rune functions incorporated. Fancy and functional!”

Dagna spoke at such an excited pace, that Fenris raised an eyebrow, not sure he’d caught everything.

Solas looked more troubled than before. “I suspect you are not far from the truth,” he said. “Tell me, Fenris. Are you certain you do not wish to have these removed?”

“Why are you so concerned, mage?”

“I find it distasteful that they continue to harm you, is that not enough? Regardless of my concern, you deserve better. Anyone would.”

Fenris had to admire how artfully Solas dodged his question, again.

“I do not want them removed. Not while I can use their power to stop others from suffering as I have. If they can be repaired, what would that require? I would prefer to avoid a repeat of the pain I endured to receive them.”

“Nothing so drastic. The lyrium is already there, it simply needs to be constrained better,” said Dorian. “That is what you have in mind, Solas?”

“Yes. If we must, the shielding can be—” Solas turned, as they all did, hearing the door creak open behind them.

The Inquisitor strode in, carrying a small brass-bound chest.

“Dagna, we just received the shipment of—Solas, what are you doing?” The light glinted off of her eyes, and Fenris was not sure if he imagined the sparks that shot out around her as her eyes met Solas’.

Mages...

“Inquisitor,” Solas said, bowing his head slightly in deference. “We were determining if your guest’s marks could be repaired. In brief, I noticed that the lyrium in them is starting to poison him. He wishes to be able to continue to fight.”

“Very well. Dorian, why are you here?” she said.

“Solas thought I might have some insight on what manner of magic was used to create Fenris’ tattoos. I trained in the same Circle as Danarius for a time—he was the mage who worked on him, you see. All I can say, is that our friend here must run on pure determination. The process could have driven a lesser man insane, if it didn’t kill him first.”

“Insane, you say?” Her eyes caught Fenris’, and he could tell she was thinking about their first meeting.

He chuckled. “Don’t look so worried, Inquisitor. I may have been mad to come here, but it seems to have worked out in my favor. Your companions are commendably gentle.”

Lana’s eyes widened at him, noticing his state of undress, and then she looked away, quickly. “Gentle like a lightning bolt to the arse.”

“Don’t look at me. Lightning up the arse is Solas’ purview,” Dorian said, smiling at her.

“That was an accident. I have apologized many times to you both.” Solas muttered something else under his breath, which sounded like it was in elvish, as he turned back to Fenris.

Without preamble he began the spell, the glow of magic coalescing in his fingers. “Tell me if you feel any kind of pain, and I will stop. The bindings have to be shaped and recalibrated, but should be stable hereafter. This may take a few hours.” Solas’ eyes flicked over to the Inquisitor’s face, apparently feeling her eyes on him.

“If you want me to leave, just say so, Solas.”

“I did not say that.”

“There are a lot of things you never say. I wonder what you’re not telling him?”

“This is not the time nor the place for an argument, Ladarelan.”

“Is it not? Am I not allowed to walk the halls of the lovely castle you found for me? I suppose you can have it when this is through. I’ll have no need of it.” The banked fire in the forge behind her flared up brightly.

“Oh dear, not again,” Dorian said, casting a quick dispel to cancel out the effect.

“Did she just give him Skyhold?” Dagna whispered beside him. Dorian shrugged.

The Inquisitor wasn’t done. “Were you simply not going to tell me that you were planning on ensorcelling one of my guests?”

“I am not ensorcelling him!”

“Solas, you kinda are,” Dagna said, pointing out that he had not halted his spell.

Despite the mage’s distractions, Fenris did not feel any pain. A tug here and there, a tingling, which felt as if it were outside of him, yet inside of his mind at the same time, but not pain. That Solas did not falter, spoke well for his ability to work under pressure, but being in-between such arguing was a bit nerve-wracking.

“If any harm comes to him, I will… I—It doesn’t matter does it? You’ll just do what you want, anyway. Fen’Harel take you!” Lana flung the little chest she’d been clinging to down on a cluttered workbench, nearby, with a great bang. She stormed out, quick as she'd come.

A choked sound, resembling a laugh, escaped Solas’ throat, as everyone stared after her.

“I hope that didn’t have anything fragile in it,” Dagna said, ending the uncomfortable silence.

Dorian glanced at her and then Solas. “I shall refrain from commenting, as it will likely earn me another “accidental” lightning bolt to the arse. Did you need me for anything else, Solas?”

“No, I should be able to complete the spell unaided. I appreciate your help.” 

“It was the least I could do. Literally. I’ll see you at the Herald’s Rest, later, Fenris?”

“Provided this works.”

“Excellent,” he said, and left in a swirl of leather and perfume.

Dagna seemed to forget she’d been working with them at all, and began removing small glowing jewels from the box the Inquisitor had left. “Mix and match, pick your batch,” she sang, absently.

“So what will I owe you?” Fenris asked, feeling suddenly very… tight. Like his entire being was caught in the laces of a pair of boots pulled too taut. “Can you ease up a bit?”

“My apologies.” Solas closed his eyes, and he was washed with magic again. The tight feeling faded, though not entirely. “As far as payment, I only ask that you aid our cause in defeating Corypheus. I do not believe I will have reason to collect on any other favors.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the Inquisitor is right. I will do what I must.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” he said, but did not explain.

When he completed the spell, well over an hour later, Solas asked him to activate his markings and demonstrate their power.

After sitting for so long, Fenris felt rather stiff. Nonetheless, he lashed out with an open hand, smoothly passing it through one of the workbenches, to grab a knife laying on the opposite side. The lyrium burning under his skin still stung, but the effect was dampened significantly.

“Shield yourself, mage,” Fenris warned.

As Solas formed a barrier, Fenris made his lyrium flare, sending out a pulse of energy in his direction. The pulse released stronger than he intended, but the mage’s barrier did not waver. It did knock back a nearby weapon stand, however, and sent a pair of swords rattling to the ground.

“Impressive,” was all Solas had to say. The man put on a strong front, as if pretending what had transpired earlier had not occurred. The only thing that betrayed his upset to Fenris, was the occasional quaver to his voice and the too-tight set of his mouth.

“Hmm. My control of them seems a bit off. I’ll need to find someone to spar with.”

“A wise decision. You should rest tonight, however. Even if your body is not exhausted, your spiritual energy will be depleted somewhat for a few days, as you reattune. If you have no questions, I will take my leave.”

“No, I think I will be well enough. My thanks.”

Soon after the mage departed, Fenris wandered out of the undercroft in a bit of a daze. Whatever changes Solas made to his markings, he could not perceive with his eyes. Within, he felt calm, and there was a quiet, as if a faint noise he was used to constantly hearing, had stilled.

The moon shone brightly into the hall, making the stained glass backing the Inquisitor’s throne glow eerily violet. It was late, and the guards nodded as he passed them. There seemed to be more of them, now, unlike when he’d first arrived.

Absent from his usual perch by the fireplace, Varric had either gone to bed or the tavern.

Despite wanting to talk to his friend about his strange evening, Fenris decided not to visit the Herald’s Rest. Instead, he took the mage’s advice, seeking his bed, which waited down a thin passage, behind a heavy door, in a narrow room in the guest wing near the garden.

His dreams that night were very strange—of fire and angry women and open wounds. Somewhere, in the far off distance, a wolf howled, sad and lonely. Fenris woke with the sound still in his ears.

Annoyed, he leapt from his bed to go work out the stiffness in his muscles and shake off the melancholy. There were already a number of people training in the yard, and so he hefted a weighted practice blade, taking a few swats at the training dummies; he watched and waited for a turn in the sparring ring.

Then, feeling like he'd been kicked, Fenris stopped in his tracks. Some manner of power washed over him.

The next moment, the sky ripped open above in an explosion of green.


End file.
